


Jonah Week Collection

by Stacicity



Series: Jonah Fics [5]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fic Collection, M/M, Multi, ratings vary from G to E, there are not going to be seven of them cause I'm a fraud but there will be at least five
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24681754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stacicity/pseuds/Stacicity
Summary: A collection of fics written for Jonah Magnus WeekContains a range of ratings, pairings & prompts - notes and any applicable warnings contained at the start of each chapter
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus, Barnabas Bennett/Jonathan Fanshawe, Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Jonah Magnus/Albrecht von Closen, Jonah Magnus/Robert Smirke, Mordechai Lukas/Jonah Magnus, Mordechai Lukas/Jonah Magnus/Robert Smirke, Simon Fairchild/Jonah Magnus
Series: Jonah Fics [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759540
Comments: 53
Kudos: 90
Collections: Associated Articles Regarding One Jonah Magnus, Jonah Magnus Week 2020





	1. Made to Measure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Made to Measure - Barnabas/Jonathan, "domesticity", G

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt** : Domesticity  
>  **Title** : Made to Measure  
>  **Pairing(s)** : Barnabas Bennett/Jonathan Fanshawe  
>  **Rating** : General Audiences  
>  **Warnings** : N/A
> 
> Set in an AU where neither of them die and everything is happy because I say so.
> 
> This one is dedicated to Jay in particular because he is the king of soft Barnabas content and also because he's an angel and a ray of sunshine and deserves only good things.

There’s a lot that Barnabas likes about his job. It’s not something of which most men of his social standing would be proud - taking a trade at _all_ is a rather esoteric choice, let alone one that is so distinctly inerudite and functional - but if he’s learned anything over the last few years, it’s that there are more pressing concerns than society. 

Or, rather - that there are many things about which society remains ignorant, and about which Barnabas does _not_ , and therefore he must make his own choices accordingly and pay no mind to the judgement of those not in the know. The cognoscenti of the paranormal are few and far between. 

Here, caught and cradled close in the lush and rolling hills of Brecknockshire, society seems far away. 

It’s a small trade that Barnabas cultivates; he tends mainly to those _en route_ to Bath that find suddenly they’re in need of a new waistcoat and haven’t the time to return home first, making ample use of his quick hands and ready manner to build up clientele around the Season. The rest of the time he makes simpler clothes, pretty enough to catch the eye, straightforward enough that the well-to-do in Hay-on-Wye and the nearby towns can afford them. 

It’s a _modest_ trade, tailoring. But there’s a lot to be said for modesty. Tailoring lets him create things and make use of his hands, it lets him exert his effort on careful embroidery and stitching, it lets him consider the very best way in which to make someone look in a mirror and smile at what they see. 

And if the little cottage in which he lives is a bit of a strange step down from a glittering London townhouse, well, its size makes it that much easier to heat through with a crackling fire. The light is gentler which suits the herbs at the windowsill, the decor is what Barnabas has chosen and not what society dictates. 

It is _his_. His home, his haven, his sanctuary. 

Or - more accurately - it is theirs. 

The candles are burning low when Barnabas hears the soft click of the door, the drip of a wet coat being hung up, the shifting of boots being unlaced and put aside. Footsteps from the front door into the kitchen, from the kitchen towards the sitting room, footsteps behind him and then the press of rain-cooled lips to his cheek. 

“You’ll drip all over my sketches.”

“Heaven forbid.” Jonathan’s fingers are cold against his shoulder but his voice is warm, warm, warm. Barnabas glances up at him, at the firelight glancing off the lenses of his glasses, the straight line of his nose, and sets down his pencil with a sigh, turns in his chair to catch Jonathan’s hand and press his fingertips to his lips. 

“You’re _freezing_. What have you done with your gloves?” 

“Ah - I’m afraid they finally gave up the ghost,” Jonathan replies ruefully, reaching into his pocket with his free hand to withdraw a pair of leather gloves, the seams split, the fingertips almost worn through. 

Those gloves are one of the last things remaining from London. Barnabas has - complicated feelings about that. 

“I’ll have to make you another pair,” he says cheerfully. “Sit down, poppet, I’ll take an outline of your hands at least.” 

“There’s no hurry,” Jonathan demurs and Barnabas tuts at him, tugs at his wrist until he pulls a chair up to the little writing desk. Jonathan watches with fond indulgence in his eyes as Barnabas stands to fetch a towel, patting Jonathan’s hands carefully dry before setting them against a new sheet of paper and running the tip of a pencil around their outline. “Both hands?” he asks softly, and Barnabas shrugs. 

“There’ll be differences - calluses, maybe, or the bend of your fingers - and I want them to fit well once I’ve lined them.” 

He can feel Jonathan’s eyes on the side of his face while he works and he keeps his eyes down - to focus on the work, yes, but to let Jonathan look his fill without having to contend with seeing eyes in return. Jonathan has seen enough eyes to last a lifetime as it is, and Barnabas would prefer not to add to his burden there. Instead he traces carefully, taking in his carefully cut fingernails, the little bump against his middle finger where he holds pencils and quills and rests the flat of his scalpel blade, the thin, raised line of a scar against the side of one hand. Careful hands, steady hands, and Barnabas is glad of it, because only a fool would place their heart in unsteady hands.

“Soon almost everything I wear will be made by you,” Jonathan notes softly and Barnabas laughs. 

“I have to practice on _somebody_. It’s just your bad luck, I’m afraid.” 

“Oh, do hush.” Warm, warm again. Jonathan’s voice is smooth and gentle and rarely raised in anger or fear, a cool head in a crisis, a safe port in any storm. “You know I love what you make for me. And you don’t have to trust to _my_ poor taste, you should hear what they say in the village - _oh, Dr Fanshawe, where **do** you get your clothes, so well-fitted, so elegantly designed_ \- and I say that I’m lucky enough to know a very talented tailor.” 

“Mm. Biblically,” Barnabas mutters, feels Jonathan’s fingers twitch under his hands with his laughter. 

“Well, _yes_. But I don’t tell them that.” 

Back in London Barnabas had been prone to filling silence with quick comments and bright laughter; it’s a relief now to shrug that mantle off and let himself sink into companionable quiet, to let Jonathan talk and know that he can just listen, if he likes. He smiles and lifts Jonathan’s hands from the paper carefully to check that the outline is smooth, clean enough for him to measure the length of his fingers and the width of his palm, turning Jonathan’s hand onto its side so he can mark its depth as well with a few quick strokes. 

“I tell them,” Jonathan continues softly, “that you are a very dear friend, and very precious to me indeed. That you are assiduous about keeping me warm on my daily rounds, but that nothing warms me quite as much as your smile. That should I ever fall ill, your company is a better balm for my soul than any medicine or tincture I have studied. That you know my heart more fully than any surgeon, that you know my soul more wholly than any Creator.” 

“Blasphemy,” Barnabas teases softly. Somewhere in the middle of Jonathan’s speech he has set his pencil down and finds himself just holding his hand, rubbing his thumb gently over his fingers as he feels them growing warmer, smoothing circulation back into them. “You’ll have the vicar around to exorcise us before long, holy oil and brimstone.” 

“It _would_ help clear the moths.” 

“Oh! _Hush_. We do not have moths, I’ve _checked_ -” Barnabas huffs, as aggravated by the idea as any other tailor would be given the delicate fabrics he has stored throughout their cottage, rises to his feet to the sound of Jonathan’s laughter and lets himself be pulled down again into his lap. 

“Shh, it’s alright, mopsy,” Jonathan murmurs into the crook of his neck, arms close around his waist. “No need to worry.” 

“I know.” 

It’s a strange, quiet little life here, and miles away from the glitter of London, the tension and terror of all that they left behind them. But it is _their_ life, a life they have chosen. Jonathan’s coat by the door, and his boots, and Barnabas’ next to them. Jonathan’s plants on the windowsill and Barnabas’ jars of jams and chutneys, both of their letters piled together, their books. Jonathan’s legs tangled with Barnabas’ at night, his breath ruffling his hair, waking up to hear Jonathan drawing a bath, his tuneless whistling muffled by steam and the rattling of water against the tub. A life cobbled together and carved out, just big enough for them, full of stolen moments and quiet confidences. 

They do not look back. They have no need to look forward. Barnabas lies awake in the early hours of a pale morning and looks only at Jonathan, sure hands and surer heart. 

He leans in closer on Jonathan’s lap and steals a kiss, feels those careful hands slide to wrap around him and keep him close, the bump of Jonathan’s nose against his, the curve of his smile. They fit together like they’re cut from the same cloth, like nesting birds and tangled roots. Barnabas curls himself against Jonathan’s chest, safe and held and warm, warm, warm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google informs me that 'mopsy' was a phrase used in the early 19th century to affectionately describe a bit of an idiot and - well. It's adorable, innit


	2. Erdbeer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Erdbeer - Albrecht/Jonah, "praise kink", M

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt** : Praise Kink  
>  **Title** : Erdbeer  
>  **Pairing(s)** : Albrecht von Closen/Jonah Magnus, Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus (implied)  
>  **Rating** : Mature  
>  **Warnings** : N/A
> 
> This is the tamest praise kink but I got caught up researching German endearments and spent too much time laughing at _hasenfürzchen_ and _honigkuchenpferd_ to get into the smut.

Jonah is not often given to swooning over sweet words and empty platitudes. Perhaps it is because he does not consider himself something that _is_ (inherent and innate) but something made, something self-created. He is Pygmalion and Galatea all at once, and takes compliments on his beauty or his wit as something earned by right, praise to a craftsman on something well-formed and skilfully finished. 

Still - something about the way Albrecht’s voice curls around endearments is appealing. 

_Schatzi_ , he says, and though Jonah would hardly be affected by someone calling him _treasure_ , somehow the words are sweeter on Albrecht’s tongue. _Liebling_ , he writes, and Jonah traces the curl of the _g_ , feels the word like a caress as ink sinks into his fingertip. _Süßer,_ he whispers, and Jonah smiles into the darkness, stretches his legs out and settles into the familiar warmth of Albrecht’s arms, the comfort of being rightly and justifiably adored. 

Albrecht is sweet and earnest in his devotion, shy in his touches, and Jonah finds himself somewhat wrongfooted by his utterly honest adoration. Even Barnabas has a considerable streak of debauchery about him, but Albrecht has none of it. He is saccharine and ridiculous. 

Jonah never _has_ had much of a sweet tooth. 

But in small morsels, one night in a hundred, he might find himself in a temper to be indulged and spoiled without any of the teasing derision that Emiliano affects with him, with none of the weight and worry of his own feelings muddying the waters as can happen with Barnabas. No, he doesn’t love Albrecht, but he will happily let Albrecht worship him for a night or two. 

On this particular night Jonah is hazy with brandy and port, recumbent on a chaise like an indolent boy-king, one arm thrown over his eyes to shield them from the candlelight and the other outstretched to let Albrecht press kisses to his fingertips. 

“One drink too many, _liebchen_?” Albrecht asks softly, and Jonah gives him as imperious a stare as he can manage from under his sleeve. 

“One too few. Pour me another, won’t you?” 

“Just as you like.” Obedient, biddable Albrecht. Jonah watches him expectantly as he pours another glass of wine, lips curved into a smile as Albrecht kneels next to the sofa and cups a hand at the back of Jonah’s neck, lifts his head gently so he can hold the glass to his lips and be sure not to spill a drop. 

Jonah knows that Barnabas would tilt the glass a step too far - supposedly accidentally - and send wine cascading down his jaw and his throat so he could chase it with his lips. But, no - here Albrecht is, sweet and reverent, and oh-so-careful. Jonah can’t rightly say whether or not he’s disappointed. 

“There, now,” Albrecht sets the glass aside and watches as Jonah licks his lips, his hand still cradling the back of his skull. “ _Erdbeermäulchen_ ,” he adds fondly and Jonah frowns, trying to unpiece it in order to translate it. He speaks enough German to get by (French, Latin and German being the hallmarks of a gentleman, of course) but isn’t in a position to compete with Albrecht’s fluency. 

“I’m too tired to unpiece that,” he sighs eventually, relenting and slipping his fingers into Albrecht’s hair, unwinding it from all of its careful combing until it waves softly around his face. “You have an infinite store of those, I suppose.” 

“As many as pleases you,” Albrecht replies easily and Jonah rolls his eyes. 

“Come, now. You have me half-dressed-” as, indeed, he’s only in his shirt-sleeves and his breeches, “and half- _drunk_ , you needn’t be so courtly with me.” 

“No. But I like to be.” Albrecht turns his face to kiss Jonah’s wrist, a neat, birdlike little movement, his fingers tracing one of the veins from the base of Jonah’s palm to where it disappears under his sleeve. “No gentleman would dream of treating someone like you with anything less than reverence. You deserve to be worshipped, but the least I can be is courteous.” 

It’s ridiculous, it _is_. Patently so. Jonah blames the wine for the shiver he feels tracing its way over his skin, the prickling heat in his cheeks, and lifts his jaw defiantly at the delighted look in Albrecht’s eyes. 

“You’re absurd.” 

“ _Natürlich, täubchen, aber-”_

“Ah _, die Ruhe,_ Albrecht-”

“ _Ja_ , _vergib mir_.” He doesn’t look in the least bit like a man seeking forgiveness. He mouths endearments against Jonah’s wrist, against the hollow of his ankle and the point of his hipbone, _spätzchen_ and _bärchen_ , _krümel_ and _zuckermaus_ , strange and honeyed and enough to make Jonah wrinkle his nose even as he lifts his hips to let Albrecht undo his trousers, listening closely with his eyes shut and his arm draped over them again. No need to supervise. Albrecht knows what Jonah wants. 

“ _Meine Tugenden, meine Verdienste, meine Hoffnung,”_ Albrecht whispers, and Jonah laughs, the sound catching on the beginnings of a moan at the touch of Albrecht’s tongue between his legs, at the swooning weight of the devotion in Albrecht’s words. 

“Ah- hardly _that_ ; I’ve been told I’m a _temptation_ and a _sin_ ,” he teases, gasping as Albrecht tuts and turns his head to bite gently at his inner thigh. 

“I’ll not have you slander yourself so, _Engel_ , not when-”

“No, no.” Jonah lifts his arm, frowns down at Albrecht. “Not that.” 

Albrecht opens his mouth to reply and then closes it again, dips his head to apologise in kisses. Least said, soonest mended, and Jonah reclines back to let Albrecht make up for his slip of the tongue with several more in all the right places. For all that he will look back at this (as he looks back at all of his nights with Albrecht) and laugh, there is something touching in the moment about such earnest devotion. It makes him feel unsteady, off-balance, fresh clay softening and warming into Albrecht’s gentle hands. Made and unmade and made again. 

He is the first of his own worshippers, the foremost, but Albrecht can kneel at the altar too. Albrecht with his candied words and his fingers dripping with what could be holy oil, who baptises him with kisses and litanies of praise. Jonah arches under his hands and feels _transcendent_ , feels himself burgeoning into the divine, cresting into something even greater and more terrifying than that, feels _worshipped_. Wonders what will be sacrificed for him to become what he must be. Wonders if Albrecht will be a Prometheus or an Iphigenia. Wonders, wonders until his thoughts go blank and then- and sinks back into the warmth of his own body like a bath, cradled in Albrecht’s careful hands, lips at his temple and fingers on his wrists, his chest shaking with the rabbit-fast beat of his own pulse. 

“ _Sternchen_ ,” Albrecht whispers, and Jonah feels his voice slide over him like treacle, soothing and muffling all at once. “Are you alright?” 

Jonah smiles, reaches out towards the wineglass until Albrecht lifts it to bring it to him again; for now, a worthy sacrifice, for now, enough. “Aren’t I always?” he says softly, and lets Albrecht move him to drink again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so the endearments I have here are (deep breath):
> 
>   * _Schatzi_ : treasure
>   * _Liebling_ : darling 
>   * _Süßer_ : sweetie
>   * _Liebchen_ : sweetheart/dearest
>   * _Erdbeermäulchen_ : roughly "little strawberry mouth"
>   * _spätzchen_ : little sparrow
>   * _bärchen_ : little bear
>   * _krümel_ : crumb
>   * _zuckermaus_ : literally, "sugarmouse"
>   * _Meine Tugenden, meine Verdienste, meine Hoffnung_ : my virtues, my merits, my hope (this quote shamelessly lifted from a letter from Heinrich von Kleist to his wife in 1811) 
>   * _Engel_ : angel 
>   * _Sternchen_ : little star
> 



	3. Paroxysm, and other fragments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Paroxysm, and other fragments - Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus, E, "medical examination"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt** : Medical Examination  
>  **Title** : Paroxysm, and other fragments  
>  **Pairing(s)** : Jonathan Fanshawe/Jonah Magnus, Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus (implied), Barnabas Bennett/Simon Fairchild (implied)  
>  **Rating** : Explicit  
>  **Warnings** : Mention of character death, historical erasure of LGBTQ+ individuals, historically discredited illnesses treated with levity 
> 
> As in all my Regency fics, Simon Fairchild is referred to as Emiliano Miniati  
> As in all my Regency fics, trans Jonah, trans Fanshawe (in case that wasn't apparent from the text)
> 
> This is just outrageously self-indulgent but it was also _so_ much fun to write, even if coding the footnotes into AO3 made me want to throw my laptop across the room.
> 
> Thank you as always to Cat for beta-reading, you're a gentleman and a scholar and a ray of bloody sunshine and I love you.

` Excerpt from the selected casenotes of Dr Jonathan B Fanshawe (1789-1851), donated to The Ashmolean in 1952 by Aloysius Lukas `

**Patient name** : _Jonah Alexander Magnus, Esq._ 1

 **Date** : _19 January, 1814_

 **Notes** : _Patient presented with complaints of insomnia, loss of appetite and temperamental behaviour; noted in particular that he was prone to displays of anxiety or irritability. Initial physical examination showed no significant irregularities outside of those noted in the casenotes of the referral meeting (11 July 1813). 2 Patient reported no change in his diet or his habits bar an increase in physical exertion attributed to the take-up of good sport 3. Aside from a bout of aphonia over Michaelmas, the patient has otherwise been in good health, and I was unable to find evidence of a significant physiological complaint that might necessitate medical treatment._

_He expressed interest in the inducement of paroxysm as a treatment for emotional irregularity, and given the lack of personal research I have thus far been inclined to conduct on such matters, I thought it prudent to attempt it 4. A tisane was also prescribed to aid rest, and the patient appeared satisfied with the results of the meeting. Instructed to keep a weather eye on symptoms and return in a fortnight if there is no marked improvement._

* * *

1 Founder of the Magnus Institute (1818- present), a research institute dedicated to the exploration of paranormal incidences. Cross-referencing with documents of the time would suggest that Mr Magnus was rather young at the time of this investigation, approximately in his early twenties, though his birth records have never been located.[return to text]

2Also missing or otherwise destroyed - no mention of ‘irregularity’ has been made in any letters to or from Magnus, or notable in any portraits of him at the time (which include a small number of tasteful nudes by E. Miniati in his usual style) so whilst it is safe to rule out physical deformity, the exact nature of these irregularities remains unknown. [return to text]

3Somewhat unusual for a London-dwelling gentleman of this period; it is likely that this refers to tennis, or perhaps riding. [return to text]

4 Hysterical paroxysm: the term given for a doctor inducing a (normally female) patient to orgasm as a treatment for hysteria. Given that hysteria was attributed to the presence of a uterus it would be unusual to see such a method performed upon a male patient, but it may have been a link to other features of Hippocratic medicine and a perceived imbalance in the humours of the body. Fanshawe’s notes suggest that Mr Magnus was treated in this fashion several times throughout the next decade, and he seems positive regarding the results; what he thought he was treating remains unclear, as many of Fanshawe’s case notes regarding Magnus are, unfortunately, as yet missing.[return to text]

* * *

“I’m surprised you’re so interested, really - it’s nothing all that exciting.”

“Well, speak for yourself,” Jonah laughs. “You ought to hear how Clara speaks of it.”

“Clara- is she not married yet?”

“Engaged.”

“Ah.”

“And capitalising on the treatment while she remains in that state, as I understand it. Albrecht certainly seems to find her all the calmer for it. I only hope he can keep her in the manner to which she has become accustomed when they do finally marry, as I understand she’s rather fond of her doctor.”

“You’re an abominable gossip,” Jonathan sighs, aiming for disapproval and losing it somewhere along the way to reluctant fondness. “I’m sure Albrecht will prove, er- well, I hope they’ll be very happy together.”

“Oh, _happy_ , undoubtedly.” Jonah waves a hand as if that’s of no consequence. “I’m sure they’ll find a sort of happiness.”

“Don’t be so callous, Jonah,” Jonathan tuts, nudging him backwards to the table upon which he performs his examinations. “Come, now, if you’d be so good as to disrobe and lie on the table for me I’d be most obliged.”

“Certainly.” Jonah reaches for his cravat, undoing it with a few elegant pulls of his slim fingers. “Do you do this much?”

“Examinations?”

“Of this _type_. Manual intervention, if you like.”

“Oh. Well, no, not really. _Most_ of my patients are rather more prone to bashfulness than you,” Jonathan replies, doing his best to keep up the veneer of professionalism though truth be told he’s rather at a loss. It’s not the treatment that’s causing him any particular shock - he is a _doctor_ , after all - but the way in which Magnus has sauntered into his office and listed the symptoms of hysteria like he knows them by rote.

Perhaps he does. He certainly seems like the cat that got the cream now, and for all that Jonathan intends to be a consummate professional about this, it’s hard not to want to derail his smugness a little.

“I’m surprised you find yourself in need,” he adds casually a moment later, making a few more notes upon his page before crossing to the basin at the side of the room to wash his hands. “It was my understanding that you were quite adequately cared for in this respect.”

Jonah chuckles, low and warm, and the sound makes the hair on the back of Jonathan’s neck stand up. He can feel his eyes on him like a weight, hear the rustle of fabric as Jonah’s waistcoat slides from his shoulders and is folded, placed neatly on a nearby chair.

“And _I’m_ the gossip. From whom have you heard such scandalous things, Dr Fanshawe?”

Jonathan opens his mouth and then closes it again, finding his boldness deserting him at the prospect of voicing some of the things that he’s heard about Jonah Magnus from certain parties. _One_ certain party, anyway, who is rather free with his comments, and Jonathan wouldn’t like to get him in trouble.

“You can, ah- you can leave your shirt on, if you like,” he says instead, drying his hands off and keeping his eyes tactfully averted until he hears the table creak, a sigh as Jonah settles himself onto his back, heels nearly touching his backside, knees primly closed.

“I ought to be rather cross with Barnabas for spreading such slander,” Jonah murmurs, tilting his head to watch Jonathan and grinning outright at the flush in his cheeks at being caught out. “But I’m sure I can be assured of your discretion, doctor, can I not?”

“Of course.”

“Well. Then, since you _ask_ , I find myself quite satisfied. Nonetheless, any medical treatment ought be performed by a doctor and not an amateur, however well-meaning.”

It’s hard to argue with that, really. Harder still given that Jonathan doesn’t _want_ to argue, and they both know it. It has been a dance of soft words and careful courtesies, thus far, Jonathan touching Jonah only as far as his medical responsibilities require, never mind that he yearns for more. That he can’t _help_ but yearn for more. Jonah is scalpel-sharp, too much so for his own good, and curious with it. He pushes at boundaries like fingers at the edge of a wound and Jonathan wants to rush up like blood to meet him. They have never kissed, but Jonathan’s eyes have traced the curve of Jonah’s lip (winestained or blue with frost or laughing) enough that he could draw it, if he so chose.

But today he is not a lover, he is a _doctor_ , and for all of Jonah’s provocation he will conduct himself with decorum. One of them has to.

“Well. Then we’d best begin,” he replies as levelly as he can manage.

* * *

`Pu Songling Research Centre Digital Resources [English] `

`J:\\DigitisedResources\1800-1900\1800-1850\1810-1820\140119JFanshaweNoteFragmentHRv1.03`

`Accessed from London, England 16.07.17 IP 96.245.163.202`

_Cont._ 5

Observations from initial massage are of significant tension in thighs & hips, though given the patient's interest in this procedure it is unclear whether this is due to anxiety (as previously asserted) or excitement. Noted to the patient that their obvious enjoyment and curiosity was of no use to the objective study of this manner of proceedings; the patient’s response was deemed too lewd to be recorded even to private notes, as is typical of them 6. Genital massage produced a most agreeable response in that it induced temporary quiet from the patient (a miracle in itself) and given the malady experienced earlier in the year this can only be of benefit to the patient’s throat, which experiences significant stress in the usual course of their habits. 7

* * *

5 Continuation of a further set of notes: the prior fragment has yet to be matched, and so the patient remains unknown[return to text]

6 This fragment exhibits a significant discrepancy in tone from the rest of Fanshawe’s work as we have been able to find it; working hypothesis thus far is that Fanshawe was fond enough of this particular patient to break with his own notation and form (though this fragment is also early enough in his career that his typical style is as yet undeveloped and immature), in contrast to the heavily annotated & almost cryptic notes seen in later fragments (e.g d.240244)[return to text]

7 A possible reference to loquaciousness on the part of the patient - or a career that required heavy use of the voice? Singer, politician? [return to text]

* * *

“Are you ever going to _begin_?” Jonah huffs, and Jonathan smiles. He’s slid Jonah’s knees carefully apart and has one finger rubbing small, gentle circles over his cock, oh-so soft, cataloguing the minute twitches of Jonah’s hips as he tries to stay still, fingers clenching and unclenching at his side.

“The essence of hysteria, Mr Magnus, as I’m sure you’ll be aware from your own research, is in the release of tension and an imbalance of fluids. I’m afraid it’s not something that a, ah- fleeting encounter will do much to fix.”

“ _Fleeting_ ,” Jonah laughs despite himself, head falling back against the table with a soft thump. “Oh, some of my companions would be most displeased to hear you speculate so, Dr Fanshawe.”

“What you do in your own time-” Jonathan murmurs, though he can’t hide his smile. There’s something absolutely infectious about Jonah’s shameless glee, all of his mischief, and he ought to disapprove of it (he does, he _does_ ) but he is so often surrounded by solemnity that a bit of whimsy and caprice is quite charming.

Jonah, of course, is charming and knows it. Especially so like this, eyes slipping closed as he presses his hips towards Jonathan’s finger, flying open again when Jonathan lowers his hand a little, drags his finger through Jonah’s folds where he’s already growing slick and eager.

“ _Christ_ ,” he hisses, frustration more than pleasure, and Jonathan blinks at him from behind his glasses with as much innocence as he can muster.

“Ah - there’s that irritability again,” he says softly. “I ought to make a note of that-”

“Don’t you _dare_ , your notes can wait-” Jonah mutters darkly, lifts his head to glower at Jonathan and then lets it fall back all over again when Jonathan slips a finger inside him. “ _Oh_ \- you’re a tyrant.” He’s laughing when he says it, though, Jonathan is stunned to find that he can feel him shaking with it, _around_ him, and he has to suck in a quick breath to keep from losing his own composure.

“Never fear, I shan’t abandon you. Settle down, now, this is supposed to calm you down, not work you up into a frenzy.”

“Hardly a- _ah_ \- a frenzy,” Jonah protests, but it comes out more like a sigh when Jonathan twists his hand, thumbing at Jonah’s cock and slipping another finger into him and it’s- it’s medical, it’s the _procedure_ , pelvic massage for the release of tension, but he can see a flush stealing over Jonah’s cheeks and his curls falling out of their careful placement and something about the drape of his shirt over his pale stomach and the tops of his thighs where he’s rucked it up a little is making Jonathan’s mouth go quite dry. “If you wanted to see a frenzy-”

“Yes, Jonah, your reputation _does_ precede you.” Sarcasm, that’s the answer, if he can be distant enough, restrained enough, if he can stop himself from wanting to bite at Jonah’s knee and his thigh, to feel his pulse racing just under the skin, then perhaps he can get through this with a little dignity. “Settle _down_ , please. I’ll take care of you.” His voice cracks there, damn, _damn_ , but he hears a sharp little intake of breath from Jonah, feels him clench around his fingers just for a moment.

It seems they both like that idea.

“Just as you say, doctor,” Jonah murmurs, all demureness again even with Jonathan’s fingers inside him, even with his pupils blown wide and dark.

* * *

`Excerpt from a letter found amongst the personal effects of E. Miniati along with a series of his earlier works, donated to the Victoria & Albert Museum by a private collector (S. Fairchild) in 1982; sender unknown. `

_...not without its merits as a treatment, though mind you the good doctor took immense pleasure in drawing out proceedings far longer than strictly necessary. I’m sure you will be immensely gratified to know that my sleep has indeed been greatly improved since, as you suggested it might be, though it has done very little to dampen what you insist on referring to as my ‘precocity’; I shouldn’t think there’s a medical treatment as yet known that could achieve that! Nonetheless I have every intention of pursuing the matter further while the good doctor remains amenable; whether or not the treatment has the desired effect on me vis à vis a general calming remains to be seen, but I certainly found the doctor to be stimulating company, as I am sure you would too. When you return I may well introduce you both - and to the others, too - as I believe you would find him just as charming as I do._

_When you see Barnabas 8next you might instruct him to maintain a more discreet approach to his gossipping, or else find a better use for his mouth than slander (somewhere to dip your quill, as M might say). I have every faith that you will take to the matter with your usual diligence even in the midst of all your vitally-important artistic work; how you have convinced the Royal Society to bring you both to stare at sarcophagi 9 and affect erudition I will never know, but perhaps they imagined you would be best-placed there with the other relics 10. Regardless, if you can bring Barnabas home with a sense of decorum along with a tan I would be most obliged to you._

_Otherwise all remains much the same in London, albeit far quieter in your absence as you might expect (much to M’s delight). If I never hear the name Bentham again it will be far too soon but R has received his funding, so with any luck he will be too busy building the thrice-damned thing to talk my ear off about the inspection principle any further 11..._

Curator’s note: this fragment found alongside a sketch of a nude with a figure alongside (presumably a doctor) undertaking some manner of physical examination; the nude is faceless, and the suggestion of linen bandages at the chest may be a form study linked to Miniati’s later studies of mummification in Abu Simbel.

* * *

8 Likely Barnabas Bennett, an acquaintance of Miniati’s during the early 19th century; Bennett features heavily in letters throughout the 1810’s but mentions of him drop off sharply around the mid-1820s, and no death records or further note of his presence are available from any of his other known contemporaries (see: _Lukas, Mordechai_ & _Smirke, Robert_ ).[return to text]

9The Royal Society conducted an expedition to Egypt in 1814-15 journeying from Alexandria down to Abu Simbel; Miniati accompanied the trip for the purposes of sketching relics as an initial record, and Bennett is also listed as an associated party, though the purpose of his place there is as yet unknown.[return to text]

10 Miniati’s precise date of birth is a source of mystery to art historians, as is his date of death, but best estimates suggest that the date of this letter would put Miniati at approximately his mid-late thirties. [return to text]

11 Likely in reference to Robert Smirke’s work on Millbank Penitentiary (the construction of which began in 1815) that drew heavily from the social philosophy of Jeremy Bentham, and was constructed on the original site of Bentham’s failed ‘Panopticon’. Millbank Penitentiary was demolished in 1890. [return to text]

* * *

“- _Jonathan_ -”

“At this rate you’re going to bring the place down around our ears,” Jonathan says softly, but he’s breathless too, his eyes dry like he hasn’t blinked in minutes, too loath to miss a single second of Jonah all but _writhing_ against his hand, grinding his hips down like he’d take his pleasure from him whether he was moving or not.

He is moving, as it happens. He’s dedicated himself fully to his task, captivated by the sheen of sweat glowing against Jonah’s skin, almost pearlescent, the gentle arch of his back and the way his knuckles are white against the edge of the table. Jonah is _beautiful_ , he’s radiant, and Jonathan has rolled his sleeves up to the elbow so as to better concentrate because he cannot possibly slow his pace, not when Jonah is spurring him on with sweet, desperate sounds.

His other hand is flat against the table and not, carefully _not_ against Jonah’s ankle or his knee or his hip, not tracing the line of his jaw or tangled against his curls. He is leaning forward so as to see Jonah’s face but not so far that there could be any suggestion of a kiss, of his lips traced against petal-soft skin. Even with Jonah red-cheeked and gasping, his toes curling against the table, there is still a professional excuse for this.

There is no excuse for the _sounds_ that Jonah is making, choked little moans torn from his chest, nor how fixated Jonathan is on what might happen if he were to dip his head and taste him, what sounds Jonah might make then. He presses his lips flat closed and forces his breathing steady, keeping his movements slow and methodical. Gentle passes of his thumb against Jonah’s cock, a careful crook of his fingers, all of it apparently enough to drive Jonah half-mad. All of it enough to drive Jonathan half-mad with the memory, he has no doubt, but he can scarcely summon a thought for the future.

It’s all the present. Jonah’s eyes squeezed shut and his hair in disarray, his shirt sliding up his ribs, diaphanous and shadowing his skin in a line that Jonathan wants to follow with his tongue, his thighs shaking as he clenches his legs shut like he can hold Jonathan there forever, the beautiful line of his throat stretched swanlike and long as he throws his head back and comes extravagantly, rapturously.

Jonathan allows Jonah a moment to catch his breath - it’s only courteous - but keeps his fingers just where they are, meeting his eyes for the barest of moments before sliding away to look at his cheeks instead, still flushed pink, the redness to Jonah’s lips where he’s bitten then.

“Well, now,” he says softly, brushing his thumb against Jonah’s cock again to watch the twitch of his hips, the way his thighs tense all over again. “Are you ready to continue?”

* * *

`Excerpt from a letter dated 22 January, 1813 sent to Jonah Magnus (1792-1860) by an unknown source.`

`Fragment loaned to Queer Britain’s inaugural exhibition by a private collector [Anon]`

_...was most strident; why, if I didn’t know better I would almost think you were angry with me. He gave me a telling-off of which I am sure you would heartily approve, and was sure to extract promises of discretion and circumspection in all manner of devilish ways that have left me entirely useless for the last two days of travel. I assure you that in future you will find me nothing short of clandestine regarding every encounter you have, sweetpea, though I’m afraid I am not sure I trust you to exercise similar caution. 12I am glad, of course, that you found the doctor suitable; I am loath to think of your health not being adequately cared for in my absence, and I know how prone to fevers you are. I am also glad to have left you in safe hands - as many pairs as London can afford you!_

_It is unbearably hot here - you would hate it, I’m afraid - but E is bouncing from sand dune to sand dune with incomparable glee and seems more thrilled the further down the river we travel and the farther from any sign of bustling life. Now that we’ve the largest cities behind us it is silent and enormous - farmland and floodplains - and the sky seems extraordinarily large here, so much so that one might almost fall into it! I have dreamed as much on a few nights thus far this trip, though I blame E’s wine for that in the main. It is awfully quiet. Atmospheric, too, and whilst I of course miss you desperately I cannot say I’m keen to return to the bustle of London when there is all of this desolate beauty behind me. One day I should very much like to bring you here, to explore the ruins and the silence of years gone by, just you and I. I know you are not much one for long walks, but I would happily carry you as far as you would like._

_Have fun back home, angel, and enjoy yourself 13. Try not to be too cross with me for having warned the good doctor of your ways; after all, when one is an acquaintance and (dare I say it?) favoured companion of the most beautiful man in London, discretion seems a Herculean task. It is all I can do not to sing your praises to everyone I meet, and I trust the doctor’s tact (if not my own). Besides which, it would have seemed unfair to leave the poor man unprepared for a force of nature such as yourself._

_As for what you asked me to investigate on your behalf, I must say that thus far…_

* * *

12Notes surrounding Magnus’ private affairs link him to several gentlemen at the time, though there is as yet no decisive proof as to whether any were his lovers, or merely dear friends. Magnus conducted himself in a circle of similarly-minded men and was affectionately expressive in all of the correspondence we’ve been able to uncover; it is plausible that this is simply the manner in which he chose to communicate with his confidants, and they with him (with the exception of some notes to an M Lukas that are constructed with almost parodic formality). [return to text]

13The use of this particular endearment suggests that this letter may be from Barnabas Bennett, who was prone to describing Magnus as such in several pieces of correspondence. [return to text]

* * *

Jonathan is immensely fortunate that he has no patients scheduled for the rest of the afternoon, that he has no other demands upon his time today, because he couldn’t tear himself away even if he tried. Three times, now, he has made Jonah clench and shudder around him. Three times he has afforded him mere seconds in which to collect himself before resuming, and now Jonah is wrecked, shuddering under his hand.

His facade of professionalism is wearing paper thin. When Jonathan shifts his weight he can feel himself slick against his own thighs and aching to his very core, but it’s easily ignored in favour of Jonah’s ragged breaths, the unseeing look in his eyes, the rawness of his voice when he cries out at the crook of Jonathan’s fingers within him.

“I- I can’t, Jonathan, I-”

“Of course you can,” Jonathan replies softly, “I’m a doctor, am I not? Put your faith in me and do as you’re told, and you’ll feel all the better for it. One more for me, Mr Magnus.”

Jonah groans, and Jonathan can’t quite tell if it’s a laugh or a genuine cry of despair, but at that particular moment doesn’t much care. His shoulder is screaming for some manner of respite, his hand is cramping, but it’s a natural matter to shift his weight again and settle a firm hand against Jonah’s thigh, to throw caution to the wind and bend his head to run his tongue over Jonah’s slick folds and the base of his own fingers, to taste where he’s overslick and salty. The noise that Jonah makes is _exquisite_ , a high keen dragged from the back of his throat, and Jonathan recalls the myth of the Lotus Eaters, imagines dazing in idleness for hours or months or years with the taste of Jonah sweet on his lips.

“One more,” he murmurs with his nose pressed to the trimmed curls above Jonah’s cock, and Jonah huffs out a breath that might be agreement or exhaustion, presses his hips up determinedly towards Jonathan’s mouth. Stubborn, prideful man. Jonathan feels a strange sort of fondness bloom in his chest; he’s gone this far and he doesn’t intend to stop now, dragging his tongue over Jonah’s cock in broad strokes, pressing his fingers firmly into him again and again and working him up, Jonah’s legs shaking so much that Jonathan tightens his grip on his leg to steady him so he doesn’t shake himself from the table entirely.

When Jonah finally comes again it sounds almost painful, ripped from him in a way that leaves him shuddering limp against the table like something dragged from a rough and merciless sea. Jonathan straightens, wiping his chin against his forearm and withdrawing his fingers as gently as he can, shaking out his wrist with a wince.

“There, now,” he says softly, leaning over Jonah and using his clean hand to thumb dampness from his cheek where the stimulation has forced reflexive tears from his eyes. “I think you shall find your sleep easier, tonight, at least.”

“I think-” Jonah drags in a breath, forces his eyes open to give Jonathan a lazy grin, feline and self-satisfied, “you’re likely right, doctor. And I shall expect my dreams to be very pleasant indeed.”

* * *

`Excerpt from a letter kept within a locked cabinet, owned by Elias Bouchard and located in his Chelsea home, dated 16 March 1814. `

_...most obliged to you for your assistance regarding my medical research, and I am sure that you will be terribly keen to read the results, but such results are unlikely to be published in any Journal of any repute. After all, there’s not much in the findings; as a potential treatment for hysteria I’m sure there is immense value in the sort of treatment I gave you, and certainly it seems to pacify you for a night, if not much longer than that, but given your own tendency towards insatiability and your rapacious nature I should consider you a considerable outlier in any case of this manner._

_Which is not, of course, to reproach you in any way. I consider myself immensely privileged to have been witness to you in such states (and more besides, as of a few nights ago; really, Jonah, your debauchery is quite extraordinary). I hope I shall continue to do so for quite some time. It just won’t be in the capacity of a medical researcher, much less anyone touting a cure for hysteria. I’m afraid if your licentiousness is due to hysteria as its root cause then you’re the most hysterical man I know, and there is simply no hope for you._

_Nonetheless, we persevere. Four was a satisfactory conclusion, but I have every faith that five or six will leave you more pliable still, and with the benefit of the acquaintances to whom you have been kind enough to introduce me, I’ve no doubt we can make some manner of arrangement. With all of my affection I remain, Jonah, yours as ever…_

* * *

`Excerpt from the selected casenotes of Dr Jonathan B Fanshawe (1789-1851), donated to The Ashmolean in 1952 by A. Lukas `

_Cont._ 14

_Repeated experiments over the course of the last few months have yielded a predictable result vis à vis the affliction in question namely that it is, of course, quite incurable; my learned opinion is that the patient suffers from no Earthly malady as yet known to science other than the grave (and incurable) affliction of being himself. A most singular disease and one for which I will attempt to find no cure - firstly because whatever Creator has seen fit to inflict such a thing is quite beyond my power, and secondly because I simply would not wish to._

_If the hallmarks of the disease can be catalogued then singular intellect, razor sharp wit, insatiable curiosity and delicate features (etcetera) can all be said to be quite evident - indeed undeniable - and such symptoms do not as yet seem to be contagious, unlike the predilection for debauchery and foolishness that touches all that interact with the patient 15. I myself have been touched by it, and cannot at this stage comment as to whether there will be any cure for the malady, or whether I shall always be thus captivated. I do not know what I fear more - the disease, or to be free of it._

_He is prone to fevers, to insomnia and to moodiness. He is not delicate or especially sickly but he works himself far too hard, and suffers the consequences accordingly (much as he might like to ignore them). I would advise any future physician undertaking the responsibility for his care to be mindful of his limits, as he himself so often fails to be, and enforce them as and when required. Physical restraint may be necessary - indeed, encouraged, under some circumstances - and whilst he is more than capable of making himself difficult, he is often pacified by attention._

_Still, my own apprehension notwithstanding, I must admit myself reluctant to walk away. I have no illusions about any singularity within the patient’s sphere; he associates with the great and the good, and his favour is fleeting. I have heard tell of many a heartbroken young man turned away from him. Nonetheless, there is simply no responsible path for me to pursue other than to keep close in his company - after all, how many doctors are fortunate enough to study angels on Earth?_

* * *

14A continuation of an earlier study - the date of which, and patient, remains unknown. [return to text]

15Given the style of this note it is possible that this was intended as a sort of love letter; to the best of our knowledge (and given its place in this collection) it was never sent. [return to text]


	4. Equipoise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Equipoise - Jonah Magnus/Robert Smirke, "BDSM", E

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Prompt** : BDSM  
>  **Title** : Equipoise  
>  **Pairing(s)** : Jonah Magnus/Robert Smirke, Jonah Magnus/Mordechai Lukas (along with the rest of the implied pairings)  
>  **Rating** : Explicit  
>  **Warnings** : Breathplay, intense temperature play ft flames, no explicit scene-negotiation (though everything portrayed is wholly consensual) 
> 
> And _now_ we get into the proper smut hooray. Apologies are probably due to the estate of real-life architect Robert Smirke. Is it RPF if I have no concept of who they were as a person?? 
> 
> All of my thanks and love to Michael for reading this over for me, you're a _gem_ and I adore you.

“The thing about balance-”

How many times has Jonah heard Robert start monologues like that? He wants to roll his eyes over it, to mock Robert for his predictability, but as it happens Robert has made himself thoroughly _unpredictable_ tonight, and Jonah finds himself otherwise engaged. 

Soft, black rope is wrapped around his wrists, holding them crossed over his head by a discreet little hook that Robert has had installed in his ceiling. It’s a position that leaves him exposed, of course, acutely aware of the breeze hardening his nipples and drawing the skin against his spine into goosebumps - but that’s alright. He doesn’t imagine he’ll be chilly for long. He’s on his knees, legs spread, shoulders straining as he holds himself up with the rope - because it isn’t just attached to his wrists, oh no. The rope runs to a small leather hoop that lies flat against his collarbone, two fine chains running from its sides to his nipples, the barbells replaced tonight with little golden rings. 

The set-up is simple enough. As long as the rope is slack, so are the chains at his nipples, and to keep the rope slack Jonah must hold himself up by gripping it, shoulders straining and legs shaking with the effort. If he slips, the chain goes tight and his nipples are pulled insistently, painfully, by the little rings piercing them through. 

For all that Jonah might have criticisms about Robert’s logic, sometimes, he really can’t fault his creativity. What else ought he have expected from an architect? Robert angles him like a wall, positions him in empty space with the space beneath his crossed wrists a frame for the rest of the room, makes him into a belvedere in the stillness of the room and sits back to enjoy the view that he’s created.

“Balance,” Robert continues, reaching for the glass of whisky at his elbow, still fully-dressed and seated behind his desk, “requires work. It’s not a natural state. The universe’s natural state is chaos, and balance is something that must be achieved by effort, not by inertia.” 

“The universe,” Jonah grits out, breath already coming in short pants, “is inclined towards inertia too. Entropy.” 

“So it is.” Robert’s smile is indulgent and warm and Jonah shudders, tilting his head back and adjusting his grip against the rope, letting out a soft sound of discomfort as he slips an inch lower and feels the tug at his chest, sharp pain that goes right to the base of his spine, to the back of his skull, insistent and irresistible. “And Newton’s work tells us that it is harder to create motion than to maintain it; all the more reason why our work continues.” 

“ _Our_ work,” Jonah scoffs. He can feel the blood in his cheeks, knows he’s pink-faced and trembling, can feel his curls sticking to his temples a little as his shoulders protest holding up his weight. “As if you include me in your machinations. You just want me here as an audience to your lectures.” 

“Oh, don’t sell yourself short.” Robert stands, rolling up his sleeves carefully and reaching out to smooth Jonah’s hair back from his face. “I find you very stimulating company. You and I can talk for hours.” 

A rather daunting prospect at that precise moment. Jonah holds Robert’s gaze with as much dignity as he can muster, shoulders straining. He sucks in a sharp breath as Robert’s hand travels to his chest and tugs at the leather hoop, pulling his spine with it in a gentle arch, Jonah’s knees slipping against the carpeted floor. The air settles in his lungs like gravel, like dirt, weighs him down like water and sews him tightly into his skin.

“ _Robert_ -” he protests breathlessly, a high whine trapped by the clamp of his tongue to the roof of his mouth. “I- _ah_ \- I-I can hardly be expected to _balance_ , as you put it, when-”

“When there are forces working against you?” Robert laughs, sits down cross-legged in front of Jonah and rests his elbow against his knee, leaning his chin into his palm. “Why, Jonah, there are always forces working towards chaos. Not just with destruction, either.” He reaches out with his free hand, stroking a finger from Jonah’s breastbone down his stomach and watching goosebumps ripple from the tip of his finger, along the colonnade of his ribs. Jonah squirms at the ghost of a touch that does precisely _nothing_ to help him maintain his position, catching a moan at the back of his throat and holding it fast. “No, there are awful temptations out there.” 

Two of Robert’s fingers settle oh-so-gently against Jonah’s cock, barely a touch at all, and Jonah grimaces at the almost-stimulation of it, the whisper of what could be a pleasurable touch. He tries to press his hips down against Robert’s hand but is unable to do so without loosening his grip on the rope, huffing out a laboured breath as he tries to find a place of equilibrium, somewhere that the pain is sufficiently bearable to merit the pleasure he’ll be rewarded with. 

“Oh, you’re lovely like this,” Robert sighs, watching Jonah with the same deliberate focus he applies to everything that catches his attention - hawklike and intent, barely blinking. Jonah feels his eyes against him like a touch, like the rake of nails at his ribs, and stifles a groan as his knees slip further against the carpet. 

“Shall I help you?” Robert shifts onto his knees as well, two fingers still hovering an atom’s-width from Jonah’s cock, reaching up to grip the rope for him. It’s a moment of blessed relief, Jonah able to drop the tension from his shoulders and grind firmly against Robert’s fingers, moaning at the edge of pain and the rippling warmth of his sore muscles spreading down his spine like water. He aches, he _aches_ , in his arms and his belly and to his very core, and when Robert slides his fingers downwards Jonah can feel how easy the glide is, that he’s _soaking_. 

It’s the desire to impress, the pleasure of being seen, the focus of a challenge. Robert keeps him on his toes - sometimes literally, on days like this - and Jonah ought to know better, by now, than to grow complacent with him. Just because he trusts that Robert is working only for what he considers to be the greater good doesn’t mean that the man isn’t capable of a little cruelty - as he proves mere seconds later, releasing the rope and making Jonah cry out at the sharp tug to his nipples, forced to wrench himself upright again and away from Robert’s fingers. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he gasps, pained and heartfelt, turning his face against his arm and trying to collect himself as he fights for balance. Not merely balance on the ropes, but that line between the sting of humiliation and the pleasure of being admired, between the fear of pain and the desire for more of it. It seems crass, somehow, to seek self-knowledge in a rope and a chain and a damnably curious man like Robert, but Jonah is helpless for it regardless. And each time, he grows a little surer of what it is he really wants. 

* * * 

“Out, out, brief candle,” Emiliano sighs, almost absently, and once again Jonah finds himself fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Once again, he resists. His eyes are fixed in the direction of the candle set in his palm. Robert had warmed the base of it with a match flame until the wax was soft and malleable, and set it firmly in the centre of his hand, wax spreading out to form its own base. It’s fragile, the candle shifting with each intake of breath and each tiny shake.

And Jonah _is_ shaking. 

He’s kneeling again, unbound, arms in front of him and bent at the elbow to hold his hands palm-up like a supplicant, like a worshipper, and he knows that the flame is shaking - can feel the base against his palm) - knows that liquid wax will be travelling along its smooth edges towards his tender skin, knows that as it burns farther down the heat will grow closer and ever closer-

He knows all this but he can’t see it, his eyes covered by a soft strip of silk that Emiliano had produced with every evidence of cheerfulness. He’s forced to listen for the scrape of a chair or the shift of fabric to denote movement, to anticipate a shower of embers and ash against the hand that isn’t balancing the candle.

It occurs to him, in the abstract, that he must make quite a picture like this, forced to stay as still as he can, pale skin flame-lit and delicate. He can smell smoke in the air - the slight acrid hint of the ash, vanilla and oak from the expensive cigars that Mordechai favours - and he is entirely vulnerable, wholly reliant upon them to tap the ash from high enough that it will cool on its journey downwards. 

Trust, trust, trust. All of them might hurt him, here. They could knock the candle over onto the delicate skin of his inner wrist, or place their cigars against his shoulder or his hip; they might grip him by the hair and burn him entirely alive. The room is warm, but Jonah shivers regardless, and feels arousal like an ember in his stomach, solid and unignorable. 

“Life’s but a brief shadow,” Emiliano continues, and Jonah turns his head a little when he hears movement to his right - Barnabas? - the slide of skin on fabric, the soft, soft sound of somebody blowing smoke into the air, “a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.” 

“Robert has his ranting, Barnabas his pandering, and you have your recitations. Do none of you have any appreciation for silence?” They’re Mordechai’s words but in Jonathan’s voice, the doctor performing a passable imitation of Mordechai’s soft vowels, and Jonah can’t stifle his laughter at the mockery. He regrets his shaking shoulders a second later at the heavy drop of wax against his palm, sucking in a breath through his nose and feeling the pain leech through his skin to his bones. 

He feels waxlike himself, sometimes, malleable and mouldable; he has remade himself once and would do so again. The pain is startling, but it’s bearable, the wax and his skin equalising themselves into one source of warmth. Drop by drop, he is being made more than what he is. 

“Apologies.” Jonathan’s voice is his own again and Jonah feels the soft press of warm lips against his bare shoulder, feels the trails of Jonathan’s finger against the back of his hand and the base of his palm, briefly supporting his hands and relieving the ache in his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to distract you. You’re doing wonderfully.” 

Jonah swallows thickly and is silent, because the more he talks the less prepared he’ll be for the next movement, that next shower of still-glowing fragments of ash, and the pain is better when he’s braced for it. Right now, the balance is between himself and the air, his hands held aloft and their weight making his arms tremble. He imagines the flame guttering, flickering, and tries to breathe shallowly so he won’t blow it out. With the death of the flame comes consequence, no doubt, and whilst Jonah is hardly afraid of _consequence_ , he wants to do well tonight. To be rightly and justifiably praised. 

There’s a little rush of displaced air when Jonathan moves away, and once again Jonah is caught in the darkness, in the emptiness, just the hard press of wood against his knees and susurration in front of him. Emiliano is whispering to Barnabas, Jonah can hear it, can picture it now, Emiliano moving his cigar like a paintbrush to paint trails of smoke around Barnabas’ face. 

He is rarely touched with any intent when he is like this; nobody would waste their time caressing a fixture, a piece of furniture, however beautiful it might be. He is admired, and he is ignored. The strain and the pressure builds in him like something solid when he locks his elbows tightly against the urge to drop his arms, feeling growing warmth close to his fingertips and growing strain in his shoulders and his back, every part of him taut. 

He knows that after this he will be caught close by one of them, that there will be cool water for his hands and balm for his shoulders, that he will be adored and indulged and praised. He craves it just as much as he craves this.

In the silence, and the yawning space between himself and the others, there is still movement. Jonah can hear the soft sound of lips sliding against one another and tries to ascertain who is being kissed - and by whom - feels the tickling itch of a bead of sweat sliding down his spine, the strange chill against his back that signifies Mordechai’s presence seconds before a cool palm cups the back of his neck. Jonah leans his weight back into Mordechai’s hand because it’s soothing, and feels the shift of weight when Mordechai bends to set the tip of his cut cigar to the flame in his palm, the intake of breath and then the heady smell of smoke. 

“Good boy,” Mordechai sighs, and Jonah knows him well enough to tense in anticipation of those tiny pinpoints of pain, ash tapped gently over his wrist and making each part of him lock taut and tight and wanting. He tilts his head back into the darkness and holds his breath in his throat like an anchor, melts like candlewax into the pain.

* * * 

Sometimes, balance is just a pretence. 

The pretence in this case being Robert’s desire to see Jonah shake and tremble and groan, to watch as he grapples with himself and with the inevitable. 

“Struggling?” he asks lightly and Jonah curls his lip, does his best to snarl past his body’s urgent demands for breath, bares his teeth like something wild and feral. Robert tuts, presses his thumb gently to his lower lip and laughs as Jonah outright _snaps_ at him, withdrawing his hand with a little shake of his head. 

“My _my_. Hardly a gentleman now,” he sighs. “You see how easy it is, Jonah? Just a little pressure and all of that equilibrium comes tumbling down.” 

Jonah closes his eyes. It hardly makes a difference. His vision is starting to darken at the edges anyway. 

There is a collar around his neck - thick, supple oxblood leather - drawn tight around his throat until the edges press against his skin. Tomorrow there’ll be a ring of bruises, purple and green and yellow, a tidemark showing how close he has come again to drowning in pursuit of adrenaline. The collar has a long chain that travels down, down behind him to the floor, under a little metal catch like the ring of a trapdoor and then back up towards Robert’s hand, wound between his fingers. When he pulls up, the chain is tugged down and the collar presses itself harshly against Jonah’s throat and leaves him breathless, forcing him to lean back to try and lessen the pressure. 

Which is all very well. But Mordechai is behind him, and beneath him, and the more he leans back to try and escape the pressure, the more firmly he feels the head of Mordechai’s cock press between his cheeks where he has been roughly, briefly prepared. The end result is inevitable. He’ll be stretched open inch by inch, with his lungs shrieking for air and his head swooning with the lack of it and Robert’s eyes fixed upon him, solid and weighty between his vertebrae. 

Hardly a demonstration of _balance_ , this one, but by now he’s had more than enough lessons on that topic. He has been held on one leg and on the tips of his toes with eggs placed delicately beneath his heels, he has fought to find a precarious balance between twin points of pain. Robert wields pleasure like a knife-edge, like a tightrope, and whilst in each and every moment Jonah swears that he will not submit himself to the indignity again, he is hard-pressed to deny the results; sore muscles and tender bruises and bone-deep satisfaction that warms him all the way through. 

This particular set-up is as much a test of Mordechai’s patience as Jonah’s obstinacy, mind. Mordechai who has been hard and aching for what feels like hours and still, even now, has only two of the six piercings along his length pressed into the clutching heat of Jonah’s body. But Mordechai is a patient man and his breath is steady along the side of Jonah’s neck, his hands loose and relaxed against his hips. Inhuman patience, Jonah thinks (Jonah knows) and he shudders like a ship in the grip of a storm. 

His lips move soundlessly, no air to make the sounds he wants, and Robert raises an eyebrow and slackens the chain enough to give Jonah some breath back, waits patiently while he coughs and gasps through the shock of oxygen that makes his vision go hazy. 

“What-” he begins, raspy and wrecked, “is this _proving_ , Robert?” 

Against his back he feels the rumble of a laugh in Mordechai’s chest and hears nothing, feels Mordechai rub a gentle circle against one of his hipbones with one large thumb, possessive and absently affectionate. It might be gratifying if it wasn’t so humiliating, if he wasn’t already stretched around what feels like an unbearable girth, if he didn’t know that he’s scarcely begun.

Robert gives Jonah a mild little smile and tugs on the chain again. Jonah’s eyes snap shut at the unforgiving pressure, at the way he has to press backwards for any air at all, at the way that that forces Mordechai deeper into him, fraction by unforgiving, unyielding fraction. 

“Only what I keep saying. That balance is an effort. That sometimes, in some situations, there are no easy options, no points of equilibrium to be found.” 

“What does one do then?” Mordechai asks quietly, Jonah jumping a little at the sound of his voice so close to his ear. He can hear the smile in his voice, the way his lips stretch around the vowels, the little snap of the _t_ in his tongue against his teeth. 

“When one is in a situation that one can’t win? Well.” Robert tugs on the chain again, winding it carefully around his fingers so it won’t slacken if he loses his concentration, and Jonah hears a wrecked sound leave his throat like it comes from someone else entirely. “Best never to find yourself in those situations, if you can help it.” 

“Cold comfort to those already there.” Mordechai’s fingertips ghost over his stomach, over the curls between his legs, blunt nails against the tender skin of his thighs. Jonah feels the cool pressure of a third stud against his rim and keens, already impaled past what he feels he can bear, already lanced through with helplessness. He feels like something other than himself, like if he claws at the walls of his skin enough he can press through from within, become something else entirely, unconstrained and freed. Not now, though - now he is kept within his bones and Mordechai is pressing _in_ , demanding space, forcing Jonah smaller as his lungs shrink and his throat is flattened, down and down into the dark. 

There is wetness against his thighs and Jonah knows that it is half-his, half from the oil Robert had provided earlier; here with it drying, cool against his skin, tacky and disgusting, with his head held in place so he can’t look down, it is easy to believe that it might be blood.

Mordechai makes room for himself like fog, insinuating himself into each part of Jonah - nails digging into his skin, the skin between his shoulderblades tickling with the first brush of Mordechai’s hair that turns into a prickle, and then into a roughness like horsehair, like fur, something to be tugged out by its roots. Jonah yearns to squirm out of his skin altogether but instead Mordechai presses him into it, instead Robert tugs against the chain and makes him lean back, loads him with sensation until all Jonah can do is _want_. 

_Insatiable_ , Mordechai calls him, sometimes, and perhaps he’s right. Even now, stretched beyond endurance, ribs creaking against his lungs, Jonah wants more, wants to be filled where he’s aching and wet, feels his legs slipping apart and the answering huff of air against his ear, quiet amusement as Mordechai drums his fingers against the drum-taut skin on his hips and keeps his hands just where they are, holding Jonah in place as he cores into him, the smoothness of the barbells alien and strange against his skin, cold and unforgiving and too much, oh, too much. 

When Mordechai’s hips are finally flush against Jonah’s he feels sub-atomic, minuscule, floating in a strange and rocking sea, tossed by waves of sensation that crest him into the air, into pulling in shallow little breaths now that his throat is unconstricted again. He scarcely notices. He lolls his head back against Mordechai’s shoulders and lets him slide in and out of him, slow and inevitable like the onward trickle of time. He can feel a hand in his hair - Robert’s - first gentle and then clenched, and hear the sound of someone talking if not the words themselves; he feels like a reflection of himself, he feels molten, primordial and liquid and dripping over Mordechai’s careful hands. 

His jaw falls open at the first touch of a thumb to his lower lip, pliant and easy, tasting the salt on fingers pressed flat to his tongue, feeling the whorls of fingerprints against the roof of his mouth and the back of his teeth, marking him, moulding him. He marks the clench and flutter of his muscles, and when it comes, the wash of orgasm over him is as shatteringly intense and as wholly unremarkable as the gentle sponge that cleans him afterwards.

Entropy. Everything comes to a stop. But there will be other nights, and other moments, and it is when things begin again that they become interesting. For as long as he has breath and intent, he will set himself into motion again.


	5. Kaleidoscope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaleidscope - Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, E, "Overstimulation"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTES LADS READ 'EM PLEASE. 
> 
> **Prompt** : Overstimulation  
>  **Title** : Kaleidoscope  
>  **Pairing(s)** : Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Jonah Magnus/all of 'em  
>  **Rating** : Explicit  
>  **Warnings** : OKAY. This fic features a visceral, violative and nonconsensual use of power that whilst not explicitly sexual in nature has what could be deemed sexual effects? As such I'm classing this as dub-con straying into non-con type territory (though I haven't the faintest idea what it counts as, really) and if you're in any way sensitive to or affected by issues of consent, this may not be the fic for you. Please curate your experience appropriately and take care of yourself!

If Peter had been asked, he’d have ascribed most of the divorces he’d weathered with Elias to poor timing. More often than not they pass like ships in the night, Peter’s fleeting moments of romantic sentiment lining up beautifully with the times at which Elias is most busy or least inclined to see him, and vice versa. 

Every so often, the stars align. Peter feels inclined to bear the dissatisfaction of his patron for the sake of Elias’ company, Elias abandons his machinations for a night, and all is rosy. 

Of course, it’s not just _their_ timing that they have to contend with. 

Peter tenses at the sound of the balcony door, a soft click as it swings open, and hisses through his teeth as he feels Elias’ nails dig into the meat of his shoulders. Elias gives him an exasperated look and then pushes himself up from the mattress, Peter slipping an arm around his waist to heft him obligingly until he’s balanced on his knees with Elias’ legs around his waist. Elias slings his arms loosely around his shoulders and glowers out at whomever’s behind him.

“You might have knocked. Or at least used the front door,” Elias snaps, _distinctly_ displeased, and Simon’s little chuckle sends pinpricks of discomfort skittering down Peter’s spine, bouncing and stinging like hail. 

He’s an odd duck, Simon. All joviality and teasing words, twinkling eyes and superficial kindness. Peter is all too aware that none of them have any room to cast judgement where morality is concerned, murderers that they are, but even he has cause to be discomfited, sometimes, by the oh-so-casual cruelty that Simon is capable of. Ladders into the sky, a sweet old physics professor suddenly struck with the full weight of enormity that is the universe and found wide-eyed and bleeding from the nose the next day in her lecture theatre, a man out with his children gasping for breath before his lungs collapse with the force of an impact his body has never felt. 

It would be easier to watch if he didn’t _smile_ so much. 

Peter adjusts his grip on Elias’ waist a little and squares his shoulders. He isn’t especially inclined to look around and meet Simon’s eyes, because to do that would be to acknowledge his strange and incongruous presence in what was _supposed_ to be a private moment. He’ll let Elias handle the confrontation. Elias is good at that. 

“Dear me, apologies for interrupting,” Peter can hear the grin in Simon’s voice, lips stretched wide around the vowels, “but you left the window open like Wendy Darling, and I thought I might drop in.” 

Elias scoffs, absently threading his fingers through the hair at the nape of Peter’s neck. “I do hear that you’ve gathered quite the collection of Lost Boys out in America.” 

“Oh! Yes, indeed, and they’re _lovely_ ,” Simon replies, sounding positively gleeful. Peter feels the dip in the mattress where he’s sat down on the end of the mattress, the duvet rumpled and thrown to the end of the bed, and he shudders from the base of his skull all the way down his spine at the feel of a hand against his hip, cool and damp. It must be raining outside. “Of course, you’ve got your own Lost Boy, haven’t you?” 

“Elias-” Peter sighs, lips against Elias’ shoulder, and Elias glances sidelong at him, lips pursed, one sharp glance enough to quiet him. He’s tense. There’s something strange and thrumming in the air between them and Peter doesn’t have to look around to know that Simon is watching the two of them.

“Can I help you, Simon?” 

“Well, since you ask, maybe you _can_.” 

They both sound so perfectly casual. Simon intruding on an intimate moment, Elias held in his arms, naked and aroused and entirely unconcerned by either fact. Peter holds his breath and considers slipping back into the mists altogether, leaving them to whatever strange game they’re liable to play tonight - and there _will_ be a game, he’s sure of it - but then-

Well, it’s been eight months since he was last in England. After this, it’ll be another five at least. He’s painted this to himself as an encounter borne of convenience, but whilst he’d rather forgo the whole thing entirely than admit to Elias that he missed him, he can’t quite hide it from himself. 

Elias gives a little hum close to his ear and smoothes his fingers over his shoulder. Peter can feel the smooth glide of metal against his skin, the weight of the ring on Elias’ finger. Funny how he still wears it when the paperwork tells a different tale, but then, he has his own ring on a chain in his trousers. Another thing not to be spoken of. 

“Is this the sort of help, Simon,” Elias asks softly, tone measured and indulgent like he’s addressing a particularly slow child (a tone with which Peter is all too unfortunately familiar), “that I can provide whilst dressed?” 

“That’s to your preference, of course,” Simon chirps. Peter can hear the tap of that damn cane of his against the carpeted floor, feel damp soaking through the covers from where he’s sitting. “Peter might prefer it.” 

He can’t hide how his shoulders shoot up at that, at being mentioned and noted - he’s back in the room, then, visible, perceivable. Damn, _damn_. Easier to be still and silent, to be furniture, to be forgotten for a time. He fixes his eyes on the wall behind Elias’ head for a few seconds before shifting, laying Elias back down on the bed and standing up with a sigh, reaching for his discarded trousers without looking at Simon. 

He doesn’t especially _care_ whether Simon sees him dressed or not, mind. Very few Avatars end up caring much for the state of their bodies, fewer still end up prone to _bashfulness_. But it’s the principle of the thing. This is an intrusion. It’s unusually rude, even for Simon. Elias lounges back against the headboard, playing at nonchalance, but Peter can see the irritation in the tense line of his jaw, in the way his fingertips catch and tug at a loose thread on the sheets. 

Those sheets will be gone in the morning. Elias doesn’t do well with imperfections. 

“This is about Mr Crew, then, I take it,” Elias sighs, and Peter turns to look at Simon, eyebrows raised with genuine surprise. 

“Mm.” Simon’s smiling, still, of course, skin split against a soft, amiable expression, positively grandfatherly. Peter digs in his pocket for his cigarettes and leans on the wall between the bed and the balcony door, not quite willing to step out into the rain and leave Simon here with Elias. 

Elias doesn’t need his protection or his supervision. More than that - Peter knows better than to step into the crossfire of a relationship far, far older than his own dalliances with Elias. More than that - Elias would never forgive him for interceding, whatever the result. More than that - Peter is _curious_. 

“You ought to know that Jon didn’t kill him,” Elias says carefully, and Peter rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. Another Archivist running around causing problems. No sooner had he toasted Gertrude’s death than this new one had popped up and started asking questions. Peter doesn’t spend much time talking to the little cabal of young pretenders that linger around London, but Elias listens closely to them, and he’s vaguely aware of their movements. Crew is one of the Vast’s, but not quite a _Fairchild_. Peter wonders if that will make his death more or less of an insult. Peter wonders why Simon cares at all. 

“Caused his death, if you want to look at it that way,” Simon replies lightly. Peter can’t see his expression very well from where he’s standing but Simon’s hand is set in a beam of moonlight against the sheets, and Peter watches the shadows of wrinkles and raised veins grow and fade, evidence of the shifting atomic spaces that Simon is manipulating. A flex of his control, perhaps, a _loss_ of his control, perhaps, an evidence of Power either way that doesn’t bode especially well for this conversation.

Peter lights his cigarette and Elias doesn’t even glance in his direction. Peter recalls a thousand snapped comments about the smell sinking into his curtains or the carpet, a hundred rolls of Elias’ eyes at the altercation, and takes a long, steady drag.

“Simon.” Elias’ voice is cool and urbane. He’s ever the diplomat, even with his shoulders scattered with bruises, even with a flush of arousal still leeching itself from his cheeks into the half-dark. “I can’t be held accountable for the actions of a Hunter. An ex-police officer in a misguided pursuit.” 

“Oh, I know. You never can,” Simon sighs. “The defining feature of your interactions with the rest of us is all in the context, isn’t it, Jonah. So it was with the Awful Deep, so it was with Gertrude, and now-”

“Oh, _Simon_ -”

“Shhh.” It’s a gentle little sound, almost soothing. Peter can see Elias’ pupils reflecting the light from the window, his eyes flicking from side to side as Simon sets his cane to lean gently against the mattress. “Just a reminder, Elias. You Beholding types get your sticky little fingers in everything and anything - all well and good - but when it affects me and mine-”

“Is that really fair?” Elias’ eyes snap up to him, sharp and agitated, and Peter takes another drag of his cigarette, tips his head back to blow the smoke out towards the ceiling. “He wasn’t really _yours_ , Simon, was he?” He flicks the rest of the cigarette out onto the balcony and into the rain so he can amble back towards the bed and settle himself at Elias’ side, giving Simon the most affable grin he can muster. 

Two on one, if it comes to it. 

He reaches for Elias’ hand, casually possessive, brushing his thumb over the wedding ring and tilting his head a little as the silence settles thick and portentous around them all, Simon’s face (young-then-old-then-young) oddly expressionless. 

He’s prepared for a lurching fall, for the breath to be ripped for his lungs, for the feeling of falling and drowning and whistling through a vast and empty void, but what actually happens-

It happens in a series of moments. 

Simon’s fingers settle against Elias’ ankle and Peter feels Elias flinch away, first from the cold of the touch and then from the dig of nails that keeps him there, and then from whatever Simon does that has his eyes snapping wide and startled, absolutely silent, and Peter opens his mouth to ask or intercede only to feel those eyes settle on him and-

God, it’s the Watcher all at once, he is being _Looked_ at, worse, Looked _through_ , he can feel Elias behind his eyes like an itch, like something to be torn out and scratched clean, and it’s-

_Mordechai’s heavy hands against his hair, tugging his head back to bare his throat and settling glass-sharp teeth there, he can see the damask pattern of the wallpaper shadowed in the candlelight and feel the creep of oil against his thighs, tickling where he’s been slapped and bitten and kissed, each inch of him over-tender and utterly used-_

He feels it, he _feels_ it, the callouses on rough hands that have never touched him against his skin, the fragility of the skin against his throat, the taste of brandy on his lips (brandy, he’s never had brandy, but he knows that that’s what it is)-

_Smirke setting knots of rope against his spine from the nape of his neck to the base of his spine and lower still, being strung and held and cradled in their grip, caught in the web of Smirke’s making and suspended, inverted, the blood rushing to his head as hands settle against his ribs and his backside and between his legs where he’s soaked and aching and desperate to be touched but too dizzy to say a word past the heavy gag in his mouth-_

He’s dizzy, he can feel his heart pounding against his chest and the hot pulse of arousal at the core of him and it’s different, this is not his body, these are not his eyes but he wants, he _wants_ , he can feel so many hands on him and he arches, gasping, choking on a moan, feeling the half-moon punctures of nails at his wrist-

_Jonathan laughing and studious and angry and pensive, Jonathan gathering him close and touching their foreheads together and he wonders if this man is so very, very much like him then can it really be long until they tear one another apart, because he has never loved anything that he hasn’t soon destroyed but Jonathan is fire-bright and he cannot help but reach out to burn his fingers all over again-_

Those are the lines of a long-dead face that he can see and he doesn’t know the face, he’s never heard the name, but he _knows_ him, he feels yearning and grief and fury and disappointment banked in his chest like the worst of grudges long-since burned to ash, remembers things that aren’t his to remember, a hand on his, a laugh he’s never heard-

_Simon, Simon’s there, and the last time he’d felt a lurch like this was soon after he’d learned of the Entities at all and made the jump to what Simon was, what he is, confronted him with probing questions that had buzzed from his teeth and shaken him to his core, dragged answers from Simon’s throat and made his eyes narrow, made him reach out and tear the breath from him like something to hold and crumple and throw aside-_

God, the fear of it, bitter at the back of his tongue, the fear of discovery and of failure and of insignificance and of pain, the wrench of loss and the sting of victory at the back of his eyes, he’s drowning in it and he can’t breathe, he can’t _breathe_ -

_Barnabas laughing, Barnabas smiling, Barnabas with his head in his lap and his eyes soft with adoration, Barnabas weeping and shuddering with secrets given freely into the soft, dawn light, Barnabas alone and heavy-eyed with sleep, Barnabas in his study, in his bed, the memory of his face laid over the bones Mordechai gives him later, his voice in his head and the letters locked tightly away-_

He loved him, he loves him, he’s never even _seen_ him but the feeling is raw and leeching from him like a wound torn open all over again, he can scarcely remember his own name but he is bleeding into the air around him, dissolving, the world hurtling and spinning onwards while he tries to gasp through two centuries of life lived in a single second, oh, my love, my love, my love-

_A multitude of rough and tender hands, of kisses and declarations of love gifted and so rarely returned, of beards against his thighs and teeth at his spine and fingers in him, at him, over him, of looking out from one face and then another, of blood on his hands and bruises under them, of seeing, of Knowing, he Knows, he Knows, he Knows-_

He has served the Lonely for all of his life (for what it means to serve anything, for whatever it means to be _him_ ) but he’s not sure he has ever felt this deeply, truly alone, he isn’t sure that he’s ever felt _anything_ -

_Peter - him, is that him? does it matter? - he is - he looks- he has Mordechai’s eyes and is nothing at all like him, he is infuriating and callow and thoughtless, he is witty and stable and all-too-much and he trusts him to be exactly what he is, predictable and gone in moments, ephemeral, like smoke-_

He can’t feel the pain at his wrist anymore, grip gone slack, sensation on his skin gone numb like he’s been dipped in wax, drowned in lidocaine, like he’s been coated in resin and left to harden in the cold grip of snow-

_None of it matters, not a bit, two centuries is barely a breath and he is just a brief spark in the ill-fated course of the universe, a flicker in the mind of eternity that drives thoughtlessly, inevitably on, his life means nothing, will do nothing, will achieve nothing, is nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing at all-_

When Peter next opens his eyes, it’s to the mist. The sea is lapping gently at the shoreline and the salt in his nose burns like tears. 

When he pulls back the mist Elias is slumped against the mattress with red eyes and his cock softening, come streaked in pearly lines over his chest, his face gaunt and distant. It occurs to Peter that Knowing things second-hand is nothing to experiencing them himself and for all that he feels wronged to his very core by a brief moment of being Jonah, Elias looks _hollowed_ by it. 

He can’t blame him. All of that at once, sensation and love and grief and pain...he shudders. 

“A reminder,” Simon repeats softly, tilts his head towards Peter and smiles. “Sorry you had to get caught up in that, Peter, but really, you have only yourself to blame. I’ll leave you two to get some rest. Cheerio.” He gives them a jaunty little wave as he leaves, closing the balcony door behind him, and Peter stares at the ceiling so he won’t have to stare at Elias. 

“Still here?” Elias says softly after a moment and Peter frowns. It’s - a fair question. Certainly he wants to leave. It’s hard enough marrying the Lonely with being an individual in his own right, let alone with the brief and awful experience of having been someone else, and yet-

“Still here,” he replies, and feels the brittle bones of Elias’ hand against his palm as they listen to the rain against the windows.

**Author's Note:**

> [Find me on tumblr](https://ajcrawly.tumblr.com) and say hi! Kudos & comments soothe my itching soul.


End file.
